by Jean Devanny
The pinnacle? Pinnacles and property rights do not go together.
CHAPTER XXIV
Exhausted, she lay upon her bed when Barry came in to her. She did not bother even to turn her head. He sat on the side of the bed and looked at her, then said gently: “Margaret.”
Some note there was in his voice, some indication of understanding sympathy, which arrested her flat mood. Was there a special significance in his tone? It came to her of a sudden that Barry must be very blind indeed not to have guessed the truth. He was so close to her; she had drawn comfort from his very bosom. Surely he must have guessed the source of the sighs which had agitated her hours of rest so. She sighed now, deeply and tremulously, and turned to him. “Yes, dear.”
At the sight of her woe-begone face, the sunken lustreless eyes which had formerly gleamed so starrily, the pinched-in mouth with its blue lips which were once so scarlet, the fallen cheeks which were once so firm and beautifully moulded—at the sight of all these which the trail of her blighted love had left, Messenger’s own countenance assumed an aged withered appearance. But from his eyes there shone a sublime sympathy and love. He swiftly bent over her and drew her into his arms, cradled her up to his breast. “Oh, my dear, is it as bad as that?”
Margaret looked up at him wonderingly. Did he know? Was it possible that he understood?
“Barry, what do you mean?” she whispered.
“I know, dear. I know all about it. Did you think you could hide it from me? I have known all along. It has worried me. I have thanked God that you and he are the kind of people you are.”
She lay breathless, wondering, picking at his face with fingers that seemed transparent in their thinness. He knew, this husband, and he took her in his arms. But what did he mean by that latter sentence? Ah! she knew. He did not dream of the consummation of their love. He must never know. So filled did she become with the sense of the man’s goodness that for an instant, but only for an instant, she saw the illicit love union with Glengarry’s eyes. For an instant she knew the meaning of his: “I would sooner have died a thousand deaths.”
“You have known all the time,” she breathed, her haggard eyes searching his, which poured steadily down on her that stream of sympathy.
Then she broke down. Did ever such sobs come from woman before? So heart-rending, so monstrous were the convulsions of her bosom, that it seemed as though her frame would tear asunder.
And the man mingled his tears with hers.
When at last she had exhausted the reservoir of her tears and lay quietly, he said: “Darling, something has to be done, and I’m going to do it. You love Glengarry and he loves you. I have watched and watched and I have seen enough. You are falling into your grave. I did not know such things happened really, Margaret. I did not know that people really died for love, but now I see that it is quite possible— The children are the first consideration. They need your care. I will go away, go right away to the other end of the world, and leave you and Glengarry here.”
She sat up abruptly, gazing on him now with a sort of adoration. What a man! Was there another like him? Oh, how she loathed herself for loving the other with this man here for husband!
“Barry, stop! For God’s sake! What do you take me for? Me and him? You shame me utterly! I want to die!” She slipped off the bed, sank down at his feet, and rested her head on his knees. She quivered in every nerve.
“My dear, you are the whole of my life. It is agony to me to see you suffer. I have thought about it a lot, in the night when you have cried on my breast, thinking me asleep. You must see this can’t go on. The children are suffering.” His voice rose harshly.
Margaret should have told him then the whole truth. She should have opened her heart about Miette, but she held yet enough selfesteem and pride to disallow this. Show Barry her pettiness, her jealousy, and her grossness! Glengarry, yes, for he was on that lower level; but Barry— The idea did not occur to her. All very well to say she was silly, but every day individuals are suffering to hide their sins and faults and failings from the eyes of those to whom they give and from whom they receive respect. Margaret worshipped her husband. She could not yet kill his faith in her essential goodness.
Nor was she equal to the strain of arguing the rights and wrongs of the matter with him. She was soul-tired and physically spent—so spent, indeed, that she saw things but darkly; she could scarcely concentrate her mind on the necessity of having this thing out with Barry.
“Oh, Barry,” she said, almost irritably, “don’t talk rot! The idea of you leaving the children is unthinkable. They love you.”
He winced visibly. The children, not her. “They like Glengarry, too,” he said. “They would soon forget me.”
Margaret rose from her knees and stood before him. “Well, I don’t know why you should think that I could ever do such a thing. Some day Harry would be sitting still in that thoughtful way of his, and he would say: ‘Mother, I wonder where Daddy is?’ And Margaret would ask: ‘Mummy, where is my Daddy?’ And I, Barry, what would I, their Mother, say to them? No, I must endure it. I am a wife. Did it ever strike you, Barry, that I am your property, just like your cattle and pigs?”
“No, no, Margaret. You are my wife. I ask nothing of you; demand nothing of you. Have I ever attempted to coerce you or tyrannise over you in any way?”
“No, but you are my owner just the same. Because I am your wife, I cannot have the man I love.”
Every scrap of colour drained from his face. It became white, like starch. “Would you take Glengarry, Margaret, while you are living with me?”
She had no pity for him in that respect. “Take him! Yes, and glory in doing it. Do we not love each other? But he—he is your friend. To him I am your property. To him I can prostitute myself to you and still be cleanly; but to give my body to my love would be the crime of crimes.” She walked over to her mirror and peered into it closely. “You see this face of mine, Barry. You can see that the life is draining out of me. He can see it too. And he would see it drain away drop by drop, and yet be loyal to your sense of property rights in woman. Funny, isn’t it?” She sat down before her mirror and continued to stare into it, while the man struggled with the morass into which she had flung his soul.
By and by he said in a voice that was full of pain unutterable: “That is too much to ask of me, girl. Anything else in the world but that.” His voice trailed off to a whisper.
Touched by remorse, she rose and went to him and cuddled him to her. “I do not ask it, Barry dear. I do not ask it. If I lived for a thousand years, I could never forgive myself for bringing this trouble on you. But I can’t help it, Barry. I can’t help it. You can do nothing for me, dear. I am going to make another fight. I’ll fight hard, too, for your sake and the children’s.”
What she meant was that she would tell Miette to go. How dared she trifle with the lives of her husband and children for the sake of that red-haired man and his jade of a wife? She would compel her to go. That would finish it.
So the next morning immediately after breakfast she took her courage in both hands and went along to the Longstairs’ room. She needed courage too, for she was at such a low ebb that she felt incapable of tackling any task, even a congenial one, and this she had set herself to do was hateful to her.
She knocked on their main door and walked in, trembling, very white of face. Ian and Miette were still at the breakfast-table, Ian with a paper before him.
“Hallo,” he said cheerily, and at the friendliness of him Margaret’s heart sank lower. She wished now that she had asked Barry to do this thing for her. But no. It was her business, and Barry need not know everything.
“Ian,” she began, and her voice shook noticeably. “I have come to ask you and Miette to leave my house.” She could get no further then, her throat filled so.
He put the paper down and then folded it elaborately. Miette started, then sat staring at Margaret while the idea sunk in.
Longstair said: “Well, Margaret, it i
s your house, and you have a right to have whom you like in it; but I thought you enjoyed my society.” There was a trace of sulkiness in his voice.
“Oh, Ian, I have. I have liked you more than I could say. This is hateful to me, Ian, but I have a duty to my husband and my children. My house must be cleaned—”
She stopped uncertainly, not knowing how to go on, then added quickly: “Of course, Barry will provide for you, Ian. He will make you an adequate allowance.”
He did not refuse the offer. It suited him. He had a right to it, according to his philosophy. Miette was looking out of the window now, biting her lips in chagrin and rage. She said not a word.
Ian looked at his wife and from her to Margaret. “What do you mean by the ‘clean’ business, Margaret? Do you mean to say that we have dirtied your house?”
Margaret rose, and with all her old dignity answered him. “Ian, there are things which cannot be said, sometimes, between one person and another. It is best for all concerned that you and your wife leave the station. Barry will discuss the matter of your allowance with you. It is Tuesday now. Please be ready to go by Saturday.” And with that she departed without glancing at Miette.
That lady spat out a string of the foulest oaths her experienced tongue could disentangle from her rage. This, just when things were all coming her way. Her vindictive, puffy eyes shot sparks, and her pearly, tiny rat’s teeth were bared. Usually Ian cowered away from her exhibitions of temper, but this time he astounded her by countering it.
“Shut your foul mouth!” he commanded. “This is your fault.” He pushed his chair back from the table and flung himself about in as violent a manner as his effeminacy would allow. “You have been up to something, I know. By God! If I thought that you had been putting it over me, I’d—” In a sudden access of jealous suspicion he struck her on the face.
He was contemptible, and he knew it. He showed his essential self, selfish, mean-spirited, petty and weak in material things as he was intellectually large and fine. Shallow in every way.
Though the blow hurt and made her nose bleed, Miette was too astounded for words or anything else. She sat goggling while the blood trickled from her nose into her mouth.
The sight of the blood unnerved Ian. He flattened out. Had he really struck her? He stared from her to his fist, then back again at the blood. He had a funny, deflated feeling, as though his body were caving in. The colour ebbed away from his face, leaving his big freckles standing out in dark blotches.
Miette came to. Ian had struck her! She had been fond of Ian before, but now she almost felt he was a man. He had displayed force towards her. She tasted her own blood, and it was good because a man had drawn it. “Oh, Ian!” she cried, and burst into great sobs of ecstatic joy. She grovelled before him. She blubbered out babyish phrases of mingled reproach and self-abasement. She cried loudly like a little child.
CHAPTER XXV
But Glengarry had decided to leave Maunganui despite his promise to Margaret. He saw in front of him a repetition of such scenes, and to sustain them he felt to be beyond him. He would tell Messenger the truth and go that week-end, on the Saturday. Messenger would understand. He was not like these God-damn women that thought a man was made for nothing but to trot around their sex like a gluttonous dog round a rotten carcase.
So on Tuesday morning when he and Messenger had left the house together and were proceeding across the front lawn en route for their horses he abruptly intimated that he would have to leave the station.
Barry received the news quietly. His brow wrinkled and his eyes took on a darkness unusual to them, that was all. After a while he said: “Yes? Have you quite decided?”
The other stopped and faced him. “Yes, I’ve quite decided.” Their eyes met, and Glengarry knew that he had no need to tell his friend anything. Messenger knew.
Not till then did the Scotsman realise all that the other’s friendship had meant to him. “By God!” he muttered, and the oath was a tribute to the husband who had known and had not spoken.
And again in the paddock as with the woman before he felt his bowels turn to water within him and the essence of his rugged manhood dissolve to womanish tears. He put up a hand to brush them away, and Messenger stared at the distant horizon. Then they turned to move on again, and when the next word was spoken the tones of both were non-committal and ordinary.
Margaret had left the Longstairs’ room lighter of heart and with life already creeping back into her veins. Oh, foolish! Oh, stupid she had been, to let her pride, conscience, or anything else, dam up the stream of her happiness. She went to the nursery, and for the first time for weeks romped with the children. It tired her dreadfully, but she persisted for quite a time, and then took their lessons for an hour or two. This left her dead beat, so she sent them off with a maid to take the air and retired to her room to rest.
No sooner did she lie down upon her bed than there came a knock at her door, and to her: “Come in,” Mrs. Glengarry entered. The old lady was worried-looking, and Margaret raised herself a little and asked kindly: “What is the matter, Mother? You look worried.”
“Mother” seated herself in the rocking-chair beside the bed and clasped her rheumy hands. She looked very feeble and old and pathetic as she bent forward and almost whispered to Margaret: “Dearie, Angus tells me that he is leaving the station on Saturday. What is the matter? Can he no do the work?”
She was not at all prepared for the effect of her words on her listener. Margaret sat bolt upright, her lower jaw slackened; then she shot out a hand and grabbed at the other. “What!” her voice was almost strident. “What! Leave the station! He was joking, Mother.”
But the old lady only stared at her, struck dumb with surprise. And suddenly Margaret fell back on the bed. She had swooned. She lay like one dead.
But the old lady knew a fainting fit. She did not call for assistance; just clasped her hands upon her breast and rocked herself to and fro, to and fro, making little moaning noises.
And luck had it that Barry walked in. He had been revolving in his mind the effect of his news on Margaret, and had felt that he must get the telling over. When he entered her room and saw her lying there with the Scotswoman wailing beside her, he got a fearful shock. He thought she was dead, she lay so still and white and wanlike. “Margaret!” he cried, and was beside her with a bound.
Mrs. Glengarry looked at him furtively in misery and solicitude. The agony in his face was awful. “It’s all right, Laddie,” she whispered. “The lass has only fainted. She’ll be round in a minute or two. See, she is waking again.” Then she rose, and with bowed shoulders and still uttering those moaning noises crept out of the room.
That ever she should live to see this day! Her Angus and that bonny lass! A quick uprush of maternal jealousy and hatred for the woman assailed her, but as quickly receded. She had loved her so! She sat huddled in a chair in her own room with sweet memories of her boy’s childhood alternating in her mind with pangs of grief and sorrow for the troubles of his maturity.
When Margaret woke to find Barry with her, she clutched at him in hysterical fear. “Oh, Barry! He is going away! His mother said he was going away! Don’t let him go, Barry! Don’t let him!” She pressed herself against him wildly. “Barry, tell him I have told Miette to leave the station!”
He started and pushed her away. “What’s that? Miette? What has she to do with it?”
All caution, all pride and self-respect were flung to the winds. “She has been carrying on with him, Barry. He would not come to me because of you, but he would go to Miette whom he hates. That is what has been killing me. She was carrying on with Jimmy. You ask him. She’s only a common harlot, and I told her this morning to leave the station. You tell Glen, Barry, and he will stay.”
She flung off the bed and knelt before him, for he had risen with a face like thunder. He violently jerked her up to him.
“Why didn’t you tell me? Ay? Don’t I count in this house at all? Why didn’t you come to me?”
Her hysteria left her. She dropped limply into the rocker and began to move heavily back and forth.
Messenger was frightened at the sight of her. “Well, Margaret,” he gave in. “You’ll never know what you have done to me, but I’ll do this for you. I’ll ask Glengarry to stay.”
She reached for his hand and kissed it. She wetted it with her tears.
But Glengarry would not stay. When Messenger went to him with his plea, the Scot saw that a change had taken place in the man’s attitude towards him. He saw that the friendship he had set before the life of the woman he loved was not now whole. There was a sternness in those eyes, a compression of those chiselled lips, that told a tale to Glengarry.
He blamed the woman. His feeling for the woman in those minutes was a molten thing that might be either love or hate. He would not stay. “It is impossible, Messenger,” he told Barry. “I couldn’t stand it.”
“Don’t you think you might consider her first?” asked the other with stiff lips. “She’s in a terrible condition,” he muttered, hating to say it.
Glengarry flashed out: “That is not my fault. I have done what I could. I asked her to send that —— away long ago, and she wouldn’t. Do you believe that I have played with Mrs. Longstair?”
Messenger peered at him suspiciously. “My wife believes you have,” he said sternly. “She must have reason to do so.”
“If she thinks so, it is because she believes the woman before me. God only knows what’s in the woman to lie about me to Mrs. Messenger. I give you my word there is nothing.”
Messenger was nonplussed. “Oh, well, she is going, and then we’ll be rid of her. Will you stay?”
“I can’t. She’ll get over it, Barry. She has her children and you. I have nothing. I couldn’t bear to live here now. Take her away from here—anywhere—everywhere. She will soon recover, and then you will have your home again. I’m sorry, old chap.”